Protosnape
by Suite Sambo
Summary: When WWW decides to add Snape to their Wizarding Heroes Action Figure line, Harry corresponds with Snape's cousin on the details of the prototype. Albert Prince Jr. has specific ideas, and Harry soon finds himself counting buttons and measuring cauldron bottoms in a bid to get the action figure to market, and to find out a bit more about this mystery cousin (H/S Light Romance)


**A/N:** This story was Written for Snarry-a-Thon 2015 to this prompt: Harry Potter is a happy man. He has made peace with his past, owns a thriving owl order business, and conducts a lively and regular postal correspondence with someone he absolutely knows to be dead.

Thank you badgerlady for your beta, SPaG and Britpick skills. I remain forever in your debt.

ooOOOoo

"Another one?" George Weasley brushed past Harry in the narrow aisle and grabbed a box from the counter. "Is Prince still giving you trouble?"

Harry looked up from the letter he was reading. "A bit. I'm getting closer, though. He's making more ridiculous demands about the clothing – wants more buttons on the waistcoat."

George let out a bark of laughter. "Mum's getting tired of all these modifications to the prototype."

Harry shook his head in sympathy." _And_ he's insisting on real dragon hide boots."

"On a doll?"

"Action figure," corrected Harry automatically.

"Right. Action figure." George grinned. "I swear it was easier dealing with Aberforth when we were developing the Dumbledore figure."

Harry smiled at the memory. Aberforth _had_ been difficult. "Have you already forgotten that he wanted us to include a goat as one of the accessories?"

"Or the bumblebee tattoo on Dumbledore's arse?"

Harry laughed. "I'll go to my grave wondering if he really had one."

Angelina stuck her head in the door and called for George, and he sidled past Harry again and went back into the shop. Harry sighed and dropped onto his stool, then stared at the collection of action figures, accessories and paperwork. He'd had some demanding jobs in the past – he'd played Quidditch for two years with the Tornadoes, and had then gone to work with Bill Weasley as an apprentice Curse Breaker – but he'd never been quite so frustrated as he was now. He'd been here at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for four years, even since Ron enrolled in Uni with the inspirational idea of becoming a Muggle dentist. At WWW, Harry managed the owl order side of the business. Ron had left this end of things in a bit of a mess, but Harry had it cleaned up and running smoothly in a matter of months, leaving him with spare time to develop new ideas.

He picked up the action figure that had been causing him a good deal of heartburn of late and counted the buttons on the waistcoat. Two rows of twelve each. How could they _possibly_ fit any more?

The action figures were his brainchild. Each was modeled on a famous modern wizard – most of them people who had somehow touched Harry's life. Each figure was designed with incredible attention to detail, from the physical form to the clothing to the accessories. And half of the profit from the sale of the figures – which were available only by owl order – was donated to a charity chosen by the family of the depicted witch or wizard. Only two figures were released each year, and the toys had quickly become must-have items for children _and_ adults.

The trick, it turned out, was getting the family to support the production of an action figure depicting their loved one.

They'd started with Dumbledore. He was the obvious choice for the inaugural figure, of course, the hero that trumped all heroes, with the possible exception of Harry Potter himself. His closest living relative was his brother, Aberforth, and everyone knew that the brothers had had a tricky relationship. Aberforth wasn't eager to honour his brother by immortalizing him in a molded plastic action figure with moveable joints and a wand hand with a realistic grip, but he was won over by the charitable donations. He chose two charities, in the end, splitting the profits between a fund to assist homeless warlocks, and another to establish a Scottish goat sanctuary.

The Dumbledore figure – with the optional Fawkes and removable half-moon glasses – was an immediate hit. After some consideration, they'd chosen Mad-Eye Moody for their next release. Moody was Harry's favorite figure, hands down. The magical eye on the figure was eerily realistic, and the wooden leg was carved out of ash and clunked satisfactorily when the figure was animated. The set included a charmed rubbish bin, and should you press the middle of its back, the figure would boom out "Constant Vigilance!" They'd turned up a grand niece, who'd chosen the Injured Aurors Fund as the estate's charity of choice.

Harry's second year at the helm of WWW owl order division saw the rather emotional release of the James and Lily Potter figures. It was an important year for Harry – a year of intense self-scrutiny, introspection, and ultimately of self-understanding, of learning to let go. He only later discovered that many purchasers re-purposed the James doll by adding miniature Gryffindor robes and drawing in a scar and round glasses. James thus became an instant Harry, and those who still wanted a storybook romance for the Boy Who Lived set him up with the Lily figure, recast as Ginny Weasley

Ginny and Harry were good friends, but Ginny, with her Quidditch career, had little time for romance, and Harry had shown little interest in any of the parade of possibilities George and Angelina (and Ron and Hermione and Bill and Fleur and Molly…) had presented him. He went on an occasional date to make them happy, but no one seemed to have the slightest clue what he liked.

Nor did he. Only that he'd know it when he saw it. But as his friends continued to pair off, settling down and having children, he wondered just when the storybook magic would happen for him.

Harry glanced at the shelf above his workbench where the final prototypes of the entire line of action figures were stored. Dumbledore and Moody, James and Lily, Remus and Tonks, and the recently released Frank Longbottom. Neville's dad had died two years ago, and Neville had been reluctant, at first, to work with Harry, protesting that no one would want to buy a doll modeled after an Auror who'd not been heard from in twenty five years.

Neville hadn't counted on his own popularity to push the sales to record levels.

Finally, finally, Harry had felt ready to produce the Snape figure.

The prototype was so like the Snape Harry remembered that he always touched it carefully, as if fearful that the small figure would lash out at him verbally, cut him to pieces with sarcasm. He picked it up now, and turned it around, examining the meticulously detailed clothing, the tiny mahogany wand, the miniature cauldron accessory made from real pewter. He smoothed down the black hair and considered the serious, hook-nosed face.

"You're dead," he said softly. "I know you're dead. I _saw_ your body."

The prototype stared ahead, unblinking, looking vaguely dissatisfied.

Harry arranged the figure's arms, folding them in front of the chest, then placed the figure in its stand. He picked up the letter he'd been reading when George had interrupted him.

 _Dear Mr. Potter:_

 _The latest version of the Headmaster Snape prototype is a full inch too tall, given the overall proportions of the figure, and should have two rows of thirteen buttons on the waistcoat. Thirteen, Mr. Potter. Not twelve. Not eleven. Furthermore, the boots must be actual dragon hide. I am not demanding too much – my cousin may have been a controversial figure in the Wizarding world and in the War against the Dark Lord, but he is certainly deserving of the respect of every witch and wizard alive today and should not be defiled by inferior footwear nor stretched to unseemly proportions._

 _Finally, the cauldron accessory you delivered for my assessment, while made of pewter as I requested, is woefully lacking in substance on its bottom. Cauldron bottoms are key to the stability and integrity of the vessel. Try again, Mr. Potter._

 _Tryingly yours,_

 _Albert Prince Jr._

Harry folded the letter back into its neat square and returned it to the thick parchment envelope in which it had been delivered. His name was written on the front in black ink by an odd, stilted handwriting. Left-handed, he thought, from the cant of the letters.

 _Mr. Harry Potter_  
Weasley Wizard Wheezes  
Diagon Alley  
London

Cauldron bottoms? Really?

He picked up a quill and carefully wrote the number eight on the bottom right corner of the envelope and tucked it into the box with numbers one through seven. Since Hermione had tracked down Severus Snape's closest living relative for them, Harry had been engaged in a lively owl correspondence with Mr. Albert Prince Jr. – Snape's second cousin. He'd sent out the usual letter of introduction, with all the details of the project, the request for photographs of the deceased, the invitation to name a charitable organization to benefit from proceeds of the sales.

Mr. Prince had taken his good time responding to that initial inquiry. But when the response did come, Harry immediately knew that Snape's acerbic personality had come from his mother's side of the family.

 _Dear Mr. Potter:_

 _I am in receipt of your request. After careful consideration, I have decided to allow you to go forward with the production of the Headmaster Severus Snape Wizarding Heroes Action Figure. However, in keeping with my cousin's high standards and scrupulous attention to detail, I will insist on final approval of the pre-production prototype. Furthermore, as Severus would certainly severely object to young children with grubby hands manhandling his person, and this very thing is the certain outcome of releasing this product, I will require that seventy-five percent, not fifty, of the profit per figure be donated to Hogwarts for improvements to the Potions laboratory and the Slytherin common room._

 _I look forward to receipt of your preliminary prototype for my review._

 _Cordially,_

 _Mr. Albert Prince Jr._

Harry had read – and reread – that first letter so many times that he could recall it word for word. He could picture the location of the three small ink blotches, and the large signature scrawled across the bottom of the page, a signature that was underlined with a flourish.

Being a curious individual by nature, at least when it came to Snape, Harry had enlisted Hermione's aid – again – in investigating Mr. Albert Prince Jr. Turns out, the man was seventeen years older than Snape, and had had an inauspicious career at Hogwarts in – and this part _was_ a surprise – Gryffindor House. Ever the helpful friend, Hermione had borrowed a Hogwarts yearbook and looked up Albert Prince Jr. A copy of his sixth-year yearbook photograph was tacked to the wall in front of Harry as a daily reminder that he wasn't _really_ dealing with Severus Snape.

Albert Prince Jr., in the old photograph, did look a bit like Snape. He was slender, with dark, straight hair. But his nose was better-proportioned and, while he looked serious and quiet in the photo, he didn't appear to be rude, condescending or surly.

Harry pulled a box over from the side of the table and, one by one, extracted the Dumbledore, Moody, James, Remus, Tonks and Frank figures from it. He laid them out on the table as he had done a dozen times before, leaving a space between James and Remus.

The space for Lily.

When Harry had replied to Prince's initial letter, he'd included all of the previously released figures so that Prince could see their workmanship and detail. While the accessories and clothing were machine-made on these final versions, they were made of the same materials and to the same patterns as the hand craftsmanship of the prototypes. Prince had returned the figures with his next correspondence, along with a few minor alterations.

Dumbledore came back without his clothing. The bumblebee tattoo on the plastic buttocks was covered with a small plaster. The note taped to his chest read "Aberforth Dumbledore is a moron." Moody was stuffed upside down into the miniature plastic bin. The clothing was switched on the Remus and Tonks figures, and the Frank figure was, mercifully, returned in the same condition in which it was delivered. James, however, looked like he'd been chewed up by a pack of ravenous rats. His nose and ears were gone, his clothing shredded, and his wand stuck into his head. The note enclosed said only, "Thank you for providing these figures for my study. I am satisfied with the craftsmanship, and am returning them in the same condition in which they were received. I assume someone tampered with the package while en route. I hope this is not indicative of the kind of person who will be purchasing the figure dedicated to my cousin, nor of the quality of owls used by your owl order business. Your assurances to the contrary will be appreciated."

Harry could not help the fond smile as he picked up Remus and adjusted his skirt. He returned Remus to his place beside Tonks and grimaced at the wand sticking out of the side of James' head. He'd left it there on purpose, and contemplated it frequently. It, more than all the other clues he'd collected over the past four months, led him to believe that Albert Prince Jr. was really not the man he purported to be.

Harry's eyes slid now to the empty space between James and Remus, the spot where Lily belonged. The Lily figure hadn't been returned with the others. Harry figured he was supposed to believe that the owl ate it, or the mysterious package burglars had taken it.

He sighed.

Harry, as the closest surviving relative of James and Lily Potter, had overseen the design of their action figures without all the back and forth required for the others. James had been far easier for him, so he'd been released first while Harry perfected Lily. He'd spent quite a bit of time on her eyes, employing a graphic artist to capture them from photographs, from a memory donated by Aberforth, and from a study of his own eyes. He approved of the final product.

Apparently Snape – well, Prince – did too.

The tone of Harry's return letters had changed of late. He edged closer to the truth, asked thinly veiled questions, shared more than he might with a business correspondent. He didn't exactly expect Prince to drop the façade but….

But no. Snape was dead. Harry had seen his dead body. He'd seen him _die_ , right there, right in front of him in the Shrieking Shack, with Nagini's mouth around his neck. He'd seen the blood, stared into the man's eyes while his breath left him, while he'd pushed out those memories with the remaining threads of energy he possessed.

And there'd been a funeral. A casket. No – he hadn't actually opened the casket to look inside and make sure Snape was in there, and he hadn't been the one to collect the body and take it to the makeshift morgue in the Great Hall. He hadn't even seen the body there – he'd been kind of busy being checked over by the St. Mungo's mediwitches and then answering all the Ministry's questions - but he was pretty sure _someone_ had.

Hadn't they?

He glanced at the clock mounted over the doorway of what he playfully called his office. It was really just an extra wide spot in the long corridor that ran along the back of the store building, but it had all the trappings of an office, and wasn't comfortable or private enough for anyone else to lay down a claim to it. It was already nearly noon, and he had orders to pack and ship, new stock to inspect – the last shipment of Moody figures had the peg leg attached to the wrong hip socket, and he had to fire call Molly and give her the bad news about the buttons and boots. He just knew she was going to strangle him about the buttons and refuse to make boots that tiny out of real dragon hide.

But first – He hunted around in a desk drawer for a clean square of high quality parchment, pulling one out and examining it for stains and wear. First he had a return letter to write to Mr. Albert Prince Jr. He chewed on the end of his quill thoughtfully, then his face softened into a fond smile, and he dipped the quill into his ink bottle.

 _Dear Mr. Prince:_

 _Thanks for getting back to me so quickly with your final requirements for the Headmaster Snape action figure. I'm passing on the buttons change to Molly – we'll get all those buttons on one way or another. As for the cauldron bottom thickness – we've got that covered too. I know someone who's really interested in cauldron bottoms and he'll get the proportions right if it kills him._

 _Have you thought any more about attending the release party? We've had family members at all of our previous new model releases. I hate to sound like a broken record, but it's a great opportunity to promote your charity of choice. Not that the Slytherin common room at Hogwarts and the Potions lab are charities – but you know what I mean. The Hogwarts Board of Governors seemed happy enough when I discussed your request with them. They're planning to dedicate the Potions lab to Snape – the Headmaster Severus Snape Memorial Potions Laboratory. It's a mouthful, isn't it? Won't put students off while they're measuring out armadillo bile, will it?_

 _Don't take me wrong –Snape (as I'm sure you know) was a great Potions Master. But to be honest, he wasn't the best teacher, was he? Well – maybe you wouldn't know that, since you probably had Slughorn when you were at Hogwarts and never were on the receiving end of one of Snape's Potions lessons. I just like to think his heart wasn't really in it. He was only a teacher because Dumbledore needed him close – well, and because he was brilliant at Potions, of course. I guess it seemed like a good fit at the time._

 _Do you know if he liked it? Snape I mean – did he actually like teaching Potions? Did he even like children? You probably know – if you follow the Wizarding press, anyway – that I've tried to get people to understand what he was all about. You know – to drag his reputation out of the gutter and get him the honour and recognition he deserves. It's not easy – he didn't exactly ingratiate himself with anyone except his Slytherins, so it's an uphill battle. That's one reason it's so important that this figure we're releasing portray him positively. I don't want people turning it into the bad guy or pitting Dumbledore against Snape in some sort of mock-up of their final encounter._

 _Oh damn. That's going to happen, isn't it? Kids are going to recreate that scene on the Astronomy Tower and toss Dumbledore off the balcony or out the window._

 _Well, that's it, I suppose. I should have the final prototype to you next week. We've made quite a few changes over the past few months and I'm just happy we're almost there. And I really hope you'll come to the release party. The Hogwarts headmaster and the Board of Governors will be there, as well as the current Slytherin Head of House. And I'll be there, of course. I'd like to meet you in person to thank you for agreeing to work so closely with us._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry Potter_

Harry corked the ink bottle, blew on the letter, and then re-read it. He was deliberately pushing Prince's buttons. He hoped he sounded like himself, assuming he was correct in thinking he wasn't _really_ dealing with Albert Prince Jr. He hoped he wasn't stepping too far over the line, either. Just enough to make the man bristle, perhaps take the bait and send back – as he was sure to do – a scathing letter that showed his true colours. A _Snapish_ sort of reply.

Before he could reconsider, Harry addressed the letter and took it up to the rooftop owlery.

"Another one for Albert Prince," he said. He held his arm out. "What? No volunteers? What about you, Rory?" He pointed to a small owl and reached into his pocket. "Will you do it for an extra owl treat?"

The owl in question shook its wings and ruffled them in the owl equivalent of a sigh, then hopped down onto Harry's arm and stuck out its leg, looking at Harry rather balefully. Harry tied on the letter, delivered the owl treat, then watched as the owl took off, then disappeared over the rooftops of Diagon Alley.

"No one wants to deliver to Prince," he accused, addressing the owls with his hands on his hips. "I know you have to fly across the Channel to get there, but it's really not that far. No further than Hogwarts, anyway, is it? What is it? Stale treats? Or maybe you don't like his owl?"

A few of the owls hooted and ruffled their feathers. Harry grinned.

"Yeah, I don't like her much, either, to tell you the truth. Odd thing, isn't she? Impatient, and ungrateful. But she's a beautiful bird, isn't she?" he mused. "Black barn owls are one in a million."

He shrugged and made his way back downstairs. He had to fire call Molly still, and do something about those miniature cauldron bottoms.

ooOOOoo

As luck would have it, Harry was sitting up on the roof of the shop with Hermione on Saturday morning when Prince's unusual black owl returned with his response. The bird landed on the table between their tea mugs and shook out its feathers. Hermione, always quick on her feet, pulled her mug out of harm's way.

"A black barn owl! Do you have any idea how rare….?"

"One in a million," Harry said with a smile as he removed the letter from the owl's leg and reached into his pocket for an owl treat.

"So he's been here before?" Hermione stroked the owl's plumage with two fingers. "Who…?"

"Albert Prince Jr," Harry murmured. He tucked the letter in his pocket. Too late – Hermione was on it.

"Snape's cousin," she said. Her eyes lit up. "So he actually replied to you? Is he cooperating? You're going ahead with the Headmaster Snape figure?"

"Yeah – he is. We are." He shook his head, then grinned at Hermione. "I can't believe Molly didn't say anything. She's done all the prototype clothing for the model. I've been worried he'll back out so I asked her to keep it close."

"Oooh! So tell me – what's he like?" Hermione cut right to the chase. "Like Snape at all? He was in Gryffindor, so he can't be too much like him."

Harry laughed. "That part's really hard to believe. He's making the most ridiculous demands – like two rows of thirteen buttons on the waistcoat. And he insisted the cauldron accessory be made of real pewter, _then_ complained that the cauldron bottom wasn't thick enough."

"Who does that sound like?" said Hermione, with a fond smile.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Actually, he sounds like Snape. A _lot_ like Snape. He's insisting we donate three quarters of the profits to his charity instead of the standard half– and it's not even a real charity. He wants upgrades to the Hogwarts Potions lab and to the Slytherin common room. Needless to say, the Board of Governors has no problem taking the money."

Hermione had that look on her face. Oh shit.

"But he was in Gryffindor – Prince was, remember?"

"Of course I remember, Hermione. How do you think I could forget something like that?" Harry almost rolled his eyes again, but stopped himself. Hermione hated it when he did that.

She frowned, but made a concerted effort to change her attitude. Hermione was always rather obvious when she was digging for more information.

"So – tell me." She leaned in, conspiratorially. "What's he like – this Albert Prince Junior?"

And because he hadn't really laid it all on the table with anyone else, and because he had these suspicions, and because Hermione, unlike Ron or George or really anyone else, _understood_ \- and maybe even appreciated – Severus Snape, he took a chance.

"Wait here a minute," he said.

He ran down to his office and pulled out all eight of the letters Prince had sent, then hurried back up to the roof and laid them out on the table in front of Hermione.

"See for yourself," he said, plopping back down into his chair. "And then tell me that I'm crazy."

She smiled, shaking her head fondly. "I've been wrong nearly every time I've told you you're crazy," she said.

He waited as patiently as possible as she studied each letter. She'd glance up at him from time to time, undoubtedly trying to gauge his reaction. He watched the expression on her face move from amused, to pensive, to irritated, then back to amused again. Finally, she folded the last letter and replaced it in its envelope, and arranged the eight envelopes in order. They were all exactly the same size, and fell together in a neat stack.

"Well," she said. She cleared her throat. "He's dead, you know." She sounded unsure.

"Oh, I know," Harry answered. "Nagini practically tore his head off."

Hermione grimaced. "I was there, Harry."

They stared at each other.

"But…?" said Harry at last.

Hermione eyed the stack of letters. She shook her head. "It's got to be him," she said at last. "You're not crazy. Well – we're _both_ crazy, because it can't be him – but it can't be this Prince either, can it? He wouldn't react to you like this – I'm assuming he's reacting to your letters, right?"

Harry nodded, a bit sheepishly. "I behaved myself at the beginning," he said. "When I really thought I was dealing with Snape's cousin. The first two or three letters." He stood up. "Come on down to my office. There's something I need to show you."

He led her downstairs and took the box off the shelf that held the action figures Prince had returned to him.

"I sent him a complete set of the figures we'd already released – you read the letter he sent when he returned them."

"Right." She was staring into the box, wide-eyed. "Oh, Harry…."

He'd handed the James figure to her. He could tell she was fighting back laughter. She held up the figure with the wand sticking out of the head like a damaged antenna. "How the _hell_ did he do that?"

"Proof, then?" Harry asked.

"Proof," agreed Hermione.

"There's also the fact that he didn't return my mum."

Hermione pressed her lips together and Harry knew he was missing something.

"What?"

"Well – don't you think he's being rather – well – rather _obvious_?"

Harry stared at her. He blinked. His mouth dropped open – just a bit.

"He's practically daring you to recognize him, isn't he?" she continued. "The snarky tone of the letters, making it so obvious he's trying to disguise his handwriting. Sticking his wand through your father's head – keeping your mum when he pretty much defiled the rest of the figures. He _wants_ you to know he's alive and pretending to be his cousin."

Harry's mouth dropped open a fraction more. He sputtered.

"But…but _why_?"

Hermione's eyes shone warmly. "Maybe he's ready to come back. Maybe he's ready for you to _bring_ him back. He's probably been _fuming_ that all these hero figures have been coming out with no sign of Headmaster Snape anywhere."

"No! He'd hate it – just like he…Prince…says. All those children chewing on his hair and taking his clothes off….do you know he asked us to make Snape's pectorals larger? He said we'd made the figure far too scrawny! And he insisted on painted-on pants instead of the traditional cotton wizarding boxers Molly designed for the prototype – you read that. It was in the fourth letter."

Hermione smiled. "He's enjoying this. I imagine he doesn't get a lot of social stimulation – wherever he is."

"France," Harry supplied. "And weren't you the one who found him there?"

"I found out the name of Snape's next-of-kin," Hermione corrected. "And then traced Albert Prince Jr.'s last known address in Paris. I never verified that he was still living there."

"I'm sending my owls there…."

"You know, I never even verified that the man is still _alive_ …."

She trailed off, her face taking on a pensive look, an even more pensive look than usual.

Harry clapped his hand to his head dramatically. "Great. Snape always thought I was an idiot. He's probably having great fun laughing at me now for carrying on this correspondence with a corpse!"

Hermione laughed. "Don't forget he's supposed to be dead, too, Harry. And we don't know about Prince yet. Let me dig a bit – won't take long, I expect."

A moment later, after a quick goodbye hug, she'd Apparated away, and Harry finally remembered the letter he'd stuffed into his pocket up on the roof. He pulled it out, smoothed it on the desk, and carefully wrote "9" on the corner of the envelope. His stomach turned as he remembered what he'd written to Prince a few days ago – something about kids re-enacting that scene on the Astronomy Tower. Damn. What the hell had he been thinking actually including _that_ in a letter meant for someone related to Snape, someone who, in fact, was very probably Snape himself?

There was nothing for it. He pulled out the letter and began to read.

 _Dear Mr. Potter:_

 _I find it rather fascinating that you seem to be trying to sabotage this entire project just at the cusp of its fruition. I did not agree to your original proposition to release this figure in my cousin's honour without careful consideration of the intents and purposes of those who might purchase it. And despite my conviction that certain wizarding youth might re-enact the fateful night of Albus Dumbledore's death using these figures, as you so crassly point out in your most recent missive, I felt that your series of so-called heroes was so incomplete, so one-sided, that I would force myself to put aside my deep reservations in the interest of fairness and balance._

 _I was not close to my cousin Severus. I was already well-established in my career by the time he started at Hogwarts. Both age and distance separated us, I fear. However, I_ was _aware of his sexual orientation, and feel secure in telling you your feelings toward him are misplaced and would not have been reciprocated. Your obsession with clearing his name posthumously is noted, and appreciated, as is your decision to include him in your line of action figures. However, I must say, now that we are so close to the acceptance of the final prototype, that your fascination with his undergarments, and your insistence that they be hand-stitched using traditional fabric and the Victorian style favoured by older wizards – with inverted Y-front openings and draw-string side closures – illustrates an obsession that can only be interpreted one way._

 _Mr. Potter, I do not know what kind of teacher my cousin was. I only know that students rarely like their teachers, and there cannot be Galleons enough in the world to compensate a Hogwarts professor who must daily face hundreds of juvenile witches and wizards. As for your invitation to the gala release party, I am still considering the offer. While I think it beneficial to have someone there with Severus' best interests at heart, someone who can address the public as well as the Hogwarts staff and Board of Governors on behalf of my departed cousin, I am not one for publicity or public speaking, having led a quiet and peaceful life out of the wizarding limelight._

 _Mr. Potter – please offer me your reassurances that you are not pining after my deceased cousin, and that you yourself have no plans to denigrate him by posing his figure inappropriately, or undressing him and placing him on your nightstand, arms folded over his chest, watching you while you sleep. I assure you he would_ not _have shown a single iota of interest in whatever it is you do at night in bed. I shall be highly suspicious, indeed, if the next figure released is "The Boy Who Lived" as I can only imagine the ways you might amuse yourself with Severus' figure and your own in the privacy of your bedroom._

 _I will advise you of my final decision when I receive an invitation to the release event. In the meantime, I am looking forward to the next prototype. I have buttons to count and cauldron bottoms to examine, you realize._

 _Cordially,_

 _Mr. Albert Prince Jr._

Well.

Harry dropped the letter. His ears were pink.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He rolled his shoulders. He inhaled and exhaled slowly once more. No good. He looked around. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to protest his innocence. He wanted to know – immediately – if the Snape figure could really be posed with its arms folded, staring down the purchaser.

He grabbed the prototype.

Yes. Yes it could. He posed it on the edge of the desk facing him. He felt as if he were back in fourth year Potions class.

"He's insane," he muttered out loud. "Remember – it's Snape. He's just trying to get me all riled up. He's an arse and a half. He doesn't know anything."

He pulled out a piece of parchment, chose a quill with a broad cut, then wrote FUCK YOU across the parchment, making sure to add lots of drips and blotches.

He stared at it, feeling slightly better. He even imagined folding it up and sending it right then and there.

But of course he wouldn't. He couldn't risk having the whole project pulled out from under him. Not now. Not when they were this close.

He knew what he had to do. High road. Take the high road. Write a polite letter back to the man, pretend – as he always did – that he was dealing with the cousin, and ignore the entire insinuation. No. It wasn't an insinuation, was it? More like an accusation.

Liking blokes was nothing. No one cared one bit that he preferred his own gender. Well, maybe Molly did, a bit. But only because she really wanted him to marry Ginny. Ginny, however, figured out that she liked girls about the same time Harry figured out he liked blokes, so then Molly cooked up the idea of Ginny and Harry having babies together anyway.

Well – blokes. He could like blokes all day and all night, and date them, and bring them to parties at the Burrow to meet the family, and sleep with them, and go on holiday with them, though really, he wasn't doing any of those things much, was he? But liking blokes wasn't quite the same as being infatuated with a dead man, especially when that dead man was Severus Snape.

Who might not be dead after all.

ooOOOoo

It took Hermione only two days to return the news that Albert Prince Jr. was alive and well in Paris, and working at the French Ministry of Magic, where he'd been employed for twenty years.

Hermione had called in a favour for an international Portkey and had gone to Paris herself to check out the address. She'd seen Prince leave his small apartment, and had then checked his credentials.

Could it be Snape Polyjuiced? Perhaps – but everything checked out at the French Ministry – no gaps in employment, no irregular behavior. Could Snape be living with Prince? Well, it was a possibility. With access to Apparition and a Floo, a wizard would never have to use the front door of his place of residence.

It was much more likely, Hermione thought, that Prince was forwarding Harry's correspondence.

Harry, not one to spend a lot of time puzzling over problems when there was a simple course of action available, took a brief holiday to Paris.

When he knocked on Prince's door on the following Saturday morning, final prototype of the Headmaster Snape Wizarding Heroes action figure in hand, he was as prepared as he'd ever be to face this problem head on. He had a plan, anyway. One that was likely to crumble in a heap if Snape was really dead and Prince was really making all the calls.

The door opened slowly, and the man on the other side stared at Harry, then took a resigned step backward and invited him in.

Though "You may as well come in" was hardly an invitation.

Harry stepped inside quickly before the man could change his mind. He held out his hand and put his most affable smile on his face. "I'm sorry to drop in on you like this – but I wanted to deliver the final prototype in person and talk to you a bit about the release party."

Prince, lips pursed, took Harry's hand and gave it a quick shake. Harry stood there awkwardly for a moment. Prince looked like a much older version of the boy in the photo Hermione had shown them. He had a pair of reading glasses perched atop his head, holding back long, straight black hair shot with grey. He was dressed rather formally, and seemed to have his cousin's predilection for buttons.

"Here."

Uncomfortable with the silence, Harry pressed the box holding the prototype into Prince's hands.

Prince looked just as uncomfortable as Harry.

"Open it," Harry encouraged, working to keep the smile on his face. "It's the final prototype – it has all the changes you requested."

"All the changes I requested," Prince repeated. "Hmph." He inhaled sharply, then pushed the reading glasses down onto this nose. "We'll see about that, won't we?" he muttered.

Harry held his breath as Prince opened the box and lifted the figure from its tissue paper nest. He stared at the severe-looking face of his younger cousin for half a minute, then turned the figure over and examined the back. He ran his finger over the velvet and brocade.

"Dress robes," he muttered. He looked at Harry suspiciously. "I don't recall discussing dress robes."

Harry straightened and tried to look affronted. "But – but you said you wanted them." He stared at the figure in Prince's hands. "Is it the colour?" he asked, rather quietly. "I thought green since he was the head of Slytherin House. But we could…."

"Green will be fine." Prince's voice was clipped. "Isn't the hair rather long? Severus' hair touched his shoulders, but I don't believe he wore it braided like this."

"But…but you didn't say anything about the braid last time," Harry said. He put on his best, confused face.

"Last time?" Prince pulled his eyes away from the velvet-and-brocade-clad action figure and stared at Harry. "There was no braid last t…."

"We added the braid with prototype number four," Harry said. He frowned. "Remember? You thought Snape's hair looked too much like a wig. You thought it might not hold up to the wear and tear it would get – that it would stand on end and…." Harry paused, then sighed. "I liked it better the other way, actually. It looked more like the Snape I remembered." He tried for a tragic, love-sick smile and reached forward and ran a finger over the top of the figure's head. "Are you sure you want to include the snake as an accessory? I think it will show him as a true tragic hero but a few people on our team were horribly offended."

Harry suddenly found himself being pushed out the door. He struggled against Prince's firm grip but the man was much stronger than he seemed. The door slammed shut in his face.

"Hey! I need that prototype!"

"I'll contact you by owl later today," Prince shouted through the door. "Thank you very much for stopping by."

"But I haven't told you about the release party yet!" protested Harry. "I wanted to –"

"Good day!" shouted Prince.

Harry turned, hiding a grin. It was abundantly clear that Prince hadn't been corresponding with him. And if he wasn't mistaken, Prince would be sending that prototype on to Snape, and Harry needed to get back to Diagon Alley to get ready.

ooOOOoo

It was all very simple in the end.

Harry traveled home as quickly as he could in the absence of an international Portkey. He could definitely travel faster than a post owl, however, even with repeated and disorienting Apparition hops.

He didn't think Snape – if indeed, there _was_ a Snape – would waste a lot of time once he had the prototype – long black braid, green velvet and brocade dress robes, rubber Nagini accessory and Dark Mark on the wrist – in hand. He expected a scathing reply. He expected, in fact, to be sitting on the roof of WWW enjoying a strong cup of tea, when the strange black barn owl brought that reply to him. Probably along with the latest prototype, which was likely to arrive in a tangle of shredded limbs and clothing.

Or maybe incinerated into ash.

It was a calculated risk he was taking, but at this point, since Snape was very much legally dead, he couldn't stop production without showing himself. Prince had already given his approval, after all, and working with him on the details was done out of a show of respect, and nothing more. WWW was not legally obligated to work with the estates of the deceased on details once initial permission to produce was granted.

Harry was up on the roof within an hour of arriving back in Diagon Alley. It was a busy day downstairs at the shop, but George thought it important enough to hold vigil with him, and they sat side by side in the comfortable outdoor chairs George kept there for fair-weather social gatherings, watching over the rooftops spread out before them.

"You're a nutter, you know," George said fondly. "You've said and done some crazy things over the years, but deciding Snape is alive based on letters from his cousin?" He shook his head and scratched at his ear – or lack of ear. "Though I wouldn't mind a word or two with him while you hold him down."

Harry grinned. He and George both knew that Snape could have killed him that night when they'd taken Harry away from Privet Drive – that Snape probably had to work harder to mess up his aim and hit George's ear than he'd have had to deliver the curse directly to his chest.

"You really put in a rubber snake?" George asked a few minutes later.

"Oh yes," answered Harry. "And Gryffindor red pants. Your mum thinks I'm insane. I told her it was for a gag gift."

Harry had also added a "tattoo" to the right buttock – a miniscule "H.P. + S.S" inside a heart outline.

They waited nearly two hours before Harry's sharp eyes spotted the strange black owl approaching.

"There she is!" He stood and walked to the edge of the roof. "I swear she just popped up out of nowhere – like…like…." He turned back to George, mouth agape. "Like she came right out of Digaon Alley."

George's face broke into a wide smile. "Where'd you first see her?" he asked, hurrying over to stand beside Harry as the black barn owl swooped down over their heads and landed on the table where they'd been sitting.

Harry pointed south. "Over there – near Knockturn Alley," he said.

"No." George laughed. "Slug and Jiggers?" he said. "It's only a few doors down, on the Knockturn Alley side, too."

Harry squinted. "How long ago did they go under new management?" he asked quietly.

"A year or two after the war – not too long after Diagon Alley was back to how it used to be." George turned slowly and stared thoughtfully at the owl perched on the table. "Their over-the-counter potions were shite before that – but after…."

Harry studied the buildings in the distance, then strode quickly over to the owl and removed the letter tied to its foot. He studied the handwriting on the front – the same handwriting as on all the other missives he'd received – then cut open the envelope and extracted the folded parchment.

"Ready?" he asked, more to himself than to George.

"As I'll ever be when faced with a not-dead Snape," George replied cheekily.

Harry opened the letter. He scanned it quickly, then dropped the parchment. It floated slowly down to the table, wafting on the gentle breeze.

"He called my bluff," Harry murmured. "He's accepting all modifications to the prototype AND our invitation to attend the release event. He says the snake and the tattoo portray the tragic figure his cousin was, and that the world should know the real reason he protected the Boy Who Lived. He says the snake was a thoughtful addition to the collection and suggests making it with a removable head."

"We can't release the figure with a Harry loves Snape tattoo on its arse!" exclaimed George. He paused, then a grin as wide as the Channel split his face. "No – wait. We can! We must! Think of the sales, Harry! Everyone will want the Snape figure just to rip off his robes and have a look at his arse! And Nagini with a tear-off head? That's absolutely brilliant!"

"No." Harry didn't look amused.

"Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes." George was practically dancing around him in excitement.

"He's an absolute arse," Harry said, ignoring George and looking out over the rooftops toward Slug and Jiggers again. He shook his head, and couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "And I'm an idiot to think I could get the best of him."

ooOOOoo

"Don't do anything stupid," George warned Harry two days later as Harry prepared to run down to Slug and Jiggers to pick up the WWW weekly order. "You never do pick-up runs. If Snape's anywhere around, he'll be on the alert instantly – he'll know you're there because of the commotion you'll cause."

"And that's just stupid," Harry groused. "All these years later people still get in a tizzy when I show my face in a store."

"You're not going to find out anything," George said. "I've been in that store at least once a month for years and I've never seen or heard anything suspicious."

"You've never had it in your head before that Snape might be alive," Harry insisted. "If you had, you might have noticed something."

George shook his head at Harry. "What are you going to do? Sneak behind the counter? Try to find the door to the cellar? Look – the release is in three weeks. Three! If you're right, Snape will be there Polyjuiced into Prince. You can follow him around all night and see if he drinks out of a flask or morphs back into the Greasy Git. You don't need to go stir things up now."

"I'm just doing a little shopping for the store," Harry said. "Someone's got to go – may as well be me."

"May as well be Angelina, or Buster, or Judene," George said. "Though I'd like to be a fly on the back wall when you step in there."

When Harry pushed open the door to Slug and Jiggers a mere half hour later, he'd managed to make it three quarters of the way without attracting attention. However, he'd been spotted by a pack of young boys on their way to Quality Quidditch Supplies and had not been able to get away without a few photographs. He wasn't shy, generally, and tried to be polite when the public stopped him. It inevitably went something like "Mr. Potter – I know it's been years since the war, but I'd like to personally thank you…." This was accompanied by vigorous hand shaking and personal testimonials of the suffering endured by the person in question, and his or her family and friends, during Voldemort's regime. There were _always_ tears – sometimes even Harry shed them – and there was about a 50/50 chance he'd be hugged or kissed as well.

So, by the time he made his way into Slug and Jiggers, he was a bit disheveled from his encounter with the boys and their mothers. He'd been counting on it being a slow day – Tuesdays weren't usually very busy – but the Hogwarts shopping had already begun and apparently everyone in the crowded store had counted on no one being here on a Tuesday.

And even though he kept his head down and queued up very quietly, the security mirrors placed around the room so that the employees could monitor every nook and cranny gave him away.

It would have been fine had the fifth year girls queued up in front of him not spun around so quickly that they knocked into a shelf of volatile ingredients and screamed in excitement while it toppled to the floor. The resulting fumes knocked all of them – and Harry too – to the floor before the witches working the counter could cast the air cleansing charms.

Harry didn't realize this, of course, until he woke some time later in a small room behind the counter into which he had, apparently, been dragged by his feet while he was unconscious. He only found that out the next day, however, when the _Prophet_ published a photo depicting the chaotic scene. Someone was hovering over him, fanning him with a folded Hogwarts supply list.

"The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One himself, knocked unconscious in our store. Lucky us."

Harry blinked, staring at the low ceiling. He blinked again, staring now at the blurry outline of a man who continued to fan him, even though he was clearly awake.

"I'm fine." He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Where am I?"

"Are you?" The old man stopped fanning him. "You do realize you didn't give us warning. We can't be held responsible for the actions of our patrons when a person of your status drops in." He emphasized the word _status_ in a way that told Harry just what he thought of said status.

"I'm good – really. Fine. I'm sorry to bother you – just came to pick up the WWW order." Harry tried to look contrite. "No one else available today – we're short-staffed. I didn't realize you'd be so busy today."

"Of _course_ we're busy today! Aren't _you_ busy today? I'd expect half of Hogwarts plows through your shop every business day in August!"

"Right. Um…sorry?" Harry sat up, swallowing around a horrible burning sensation in his throat. He coughed. "Water?" he asked.

The old man sighed and left the room with a huff, and while he was gone, Harry got to his feet and leaned against a sturdy deck pushed into a corner. He coughed again. Whatever fumes he'd breathed in had really burned his throat. The old man hadn't reappeared, so Harry sank down onto the desk chair. Everything was still blurry. Where were his glasses?

What the…?

An action figure – a Wizarding Heroes action figure, to be precise, though he couldn't make out which one – was propped up in the corner against the wall. Harry leaned in and squinted. It seemed to be James Potter –

Harry's mouth dropped open.

A snake – a small rubber snake – was wrapped around James' shoulders.

He grabbed the figure as quickly as he could and stuffed it in his pocket, along with the rubber snake. Just in time – the old man hurried into the room, holding a glass of water. He pushed the water toward Harry, who took it gratefully and swallowed it in four gulps.

"I'll have someone come back for my order," Harry said, giving the man a painful smile. "Is there a back door? And do you see my glasses anywhere?"

"This isn't our fault, you know," the man insisted as he escorted Harry through another room and to a door that led to the alley. "You shouldn't have come – not at the time of year. I expect compensation for those lost ingredients – I'll add it to your account, in fact." He handed Harry his glasses and quickly pushed him out into the alley and slammed the door behind him.

Harry trudged slowly back up to Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Snape was there – at Slug and Jiggers, just as he'd deduced. It had to be Snape! Now that he had his glasses, he could see that someone had added a lightning bolt scar and round glasses to the James figure. And the snake he'd taken was the very same snake he'd used on the fake prototype – the same prototype that Prince had surely forwarded to Snape after Harry popped in on him.

And Snape would now know that Harry had been in the shop. And that he'd been overcome by fumes and revived in the back room. He'd know who'd taken the figure as soon as he realized it was missing.

Harry was oddly intrigued with this cat and mouse game they'd been playing. Snape had to know that Harry knew he was alive, and where he was. He had to know that Harry was deliberately provoking him in his correspondence with Prince. And Snape was willingly playing along in this game of one-upmanship.

Because that's what it was – a game.

Harry reached into his pocket. His hand closed around the figure there, and he thought about it, and how it had been altered with the scar and the glasses. And he thought about the past months spent developing the Headmaster Snape prototype, and the correspondence with Albert Prince Jr. – those first letters where Harry thought he was writing to Prince, but Snape knew he was writing to Harry.

He managed to slip inside Weasley Wizard Wheezes without being noticed by the crowds of children inside– but only by casting a Disillusionment spell on himself in the alley next to the store. But while the children didn't notice him, George's practiced eye did. He pulled Harry into his office and Harry reluctantly spilled the story.

George held out his hand. "Hand it over," he demanded.

Harry did, and watched dumbly as George examined the figure, only protesting when he began to strip off the clothing.

"Hey! Have some respect!"

"Shhh. I have an idea…wait…wait for it… Yes!"

George's grin was wide and his eyes shining when he turned the figure around, displaying its arse to Harry.

"H.P. + S.S." was emblazoned on one buttock in bright red ink.

"He's brilliant," George said, the Cheshire grin back on his face. "Merlin, I've missed him all these years."

"You have not," said Harry, snatching the figure out of George's hands and dressing it quickly. "You've not missed him a bit."

" _You_ have, though," George accused, still smiling.

"No." Harry shook his head. "I haven't." He stared at George and his smile was infectious. His eyes took on a curious warmth. "I have – had – a ton of regrets. You know that. That I didn't go back for him, that I thought he was a coward. And then – when I found out at the end what my mum had meant to him – well, you know." He shrugged. "Just lots of missed opportunity, I suppose."

"What about now?" George asked. "You've chased this down – you've found him out, and found him right in your own backyard. Mystery solved?"

"He wrote on my _arse_ ," Harry said, rather weakly.

George smiled. "You wrote on his first. You've got a regular pissing match going on. And, for what it's worth, I think you both have some issues to settle."

"Yeah, like why he let me think he was dead all these years?"

"Well – sure. For starters. Let us all think he was dead, too, but frankly Harry, it's kind of a curiosity to me – to the rest of us. Snape's alive? _Snape_? Really? How did he fake his death? Why?" He shrugged. "Then we're done with it. I don't know anyone who'd want to go deeper than that once the novelty has worn off." He shook his head. "Well, no one but _you_ , anyway."

"He knew my mum – "

"Um - Harry - _lots_ of people knew your mum. So – yeah – he knew her before Hogwarts. But so did your Aunt Petunia."

Harry could have argued with that logic – but it truly wasn't worth it. He smiled sheepishly at George. "Fine. I'm going to leave it be until the release party. That's only three weeks away and he's bound to show up – I'll bet my last Galleon he'll show up Polyjuiced into Prince."

"Well, he'll get his own invitation then, too, won't he?" George pulled a stack of cards off the shelf over his desk and tossed one to Harry. "We're inviting all the Diagon Alley shop owners – we're going to promote sales with a contest."

Harry stared at George, the card unread in his hand. His mind was whirling. "I – I don't understand. We didn't do anything like that for the earlier releases."

George fidgeted and looked away.

The Knut dropped.

"You don't think he'll sell, do you? You think no one's going to want to buy the Headmaster Snape figure, don't you?"

"Well, you've got to admit Snape isn't the most popular of our heroes…."

"He's misunderstood!" insisted Harry.

"Maybe, but he was a mean bastard," George countered.

"Is! _Is_ a mean bastard – not _was_!"

Harry stared at George, who stared back at Harry.

George looked away first. He settled onto his desk chair and straightened a stack of paper. "Just don't make a scene at the party, alright? No following Prince around all night to see if he's drinking Polyjuice from a flask."

Harry sighed and looked down at his hand. He was still holding the card George had tossed his way. He frowned and looked at it more closely.

"What?" He looked up, glaring at George. George lifted a leg up onto his desk, leaned back in his chair so that it was balanced on two legs, and looked back at Harry with an innocence so feigned that Harry almost laughed.

" _I'm_ the prize for this contest?" he asked. He looked down and read from the card. "The store with the best window display featuring the Headmaster Snape Wizarding Hero action figure will win a personal promotional visit by Harry Potter. The display should tie in with your store's products and clientele, and must be respectful of the headmaster, who received, for the record, a posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class."

Harry flicked the card at George. It hit him on the chin and fell to the floor.

"WINDOW displays?" he roared. "This is going to be a disaster! Snape is going to murder me!"

"Can't," George said smugly. "He's dead. And it's brilliant, Harry. Half the store windows in Diagon Alley are going to be decorated with Snape dioramas! The prize is priceless and everyone will want it - having you in the store for half a day will guarantee a nice profit –"

"A half a day!"

"Personally, I'm vying for Quality Quidditch Supplies. You'd not mind spending time there, and think of what they can do in a window by mounting Snape on a miniature broom!"

Harry sighed. There wasn't a chance in hell this contest could turn out well.

ooOOOoo

Harry managed to put all thoughts of Snape in a remote and dusty corner of his mind during the next few weeks.

He was less successful at ignoring the flurry of activity in Diagon Alley as the Snape-centered window displays began to appear. Snape, showing an unbelievable range of versatility, was engaged in every sort of activity imaginable in the store windows. He rode a miniature broom at Quality Quidditch Supplies while holding a Quaffle under his arm, twirled in fancy dress robes at Madam Malkin's like a ballerina in a music box, and slid down an ice-cream covered slope in an action figure-sized toboggan at Fortescue's. At Flourish and Blotts, he sat in a tiny armchair in a striped maroon dressing gown, lamp at his side, feet up on a little bitty ottoman, reading a book with reading glasses resting low on his nose. In the display in Gringotts' lobby, Snape clung to a scale model white dragon in a parody of Harry, Ron and Hermione's escape on that fateful day. Snape rode a hopping Chocolate Frog around the window display at Sugarplum's, and at Eeylops he'd sprouted feathered wings and sat perched on a roost. Harry liked the way his head spun around in a circle, much like an owl's, and how the real owl on display in the window occasionally nipped at Snape's feet.

Harry's favorite display – not that he'd be making the final decision, of course – was at the Leaky Cauldron.

The Leaky's display had Snape in a rowboat, paddling about in a cauldron of soup. A leaky cauldron of soup, to be precise. Harry gave it points for sheer creativity, and he stood in front of the window, Disillusionment Charm in place, with a group of people elbowing each other as they jostled for a better view, smiling as chunks of carrots and potatoes floated around beside Snape's tiny oars.

And while the display at Slug and Jiggers was definitely _not_ in Harry's top five list, he was oddly fascinated by it nonetheless and spent more time staring into this particular window than he had in any other. The Snape of Slug and Jiggers was Professor Snape, Potions master. He stood behind a work bench filled with steaming cauldrons, impeccably dressed in teaching robes with every button properly done up, while at one of the student tables facing him, a student cleaned cauldrons.

It was the James figure, of course, scar and glasses added, hair mussed, tiny Gryffindor tie around his neck. Miniature cauldrons were piled up on the table, and the figure had a scrub brush in one hand and a rag in the other. The detail in the diorama was stellar. There was even a tiny chalkboard, with the ingredients of a potion listed on it. A broom leaned forlornly against the door – giving every indication that there was a Quidditch game going on outside – without Harry Potter.

His stomach flip-flopped a time or two while he stood outside this particular window. He wondered if anyone else, any of the hundreds of people who passed by and admired the display, saw the message on the chalkboard.

 _Castor Oil_  
Unicorn Blood  
Saltpeter  
Onion Juice  
Octopus Tentacle  
Nightshade  
Hemlock  
Puffer-fish Eyes

 _C U SOON HP_ \- clearly spelled out in the first letters of this very unusual collection of potions ingredients.

ooOOOoo

Harry was on pins and needles the evening of the release party.

True, a number of figures had already been pre-released, but only to Diagon Alley shop owners, and only for use in their window displays. Everyone was talking about the contest. Everyone. Pre-orders for the Headmaster Snape Wizarding Hero Action Figure were rolling in, and _The Daily Prophet_ released an entire special pull-out section featuring wizarding photographs of the windows and interviews with the shop owners and employees who'd created them.

Harry had taken dates to the previous parties, but was far too nervous to even consider it today, and frankly, he preferred flying solo this time around. He arrived early, as always, with George and Angelina, and was in position with them at the door to greet invited guests once they'd had their invitations checked and were admitted to the hall.

Albert Prince Jr. was an early arrival. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable as he looked around the expansive Ministry banquet hall, then joined the greeting line behind two members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. He'd just secured his place in line when the Head of Slytherin House, Professor Jorgensen, joined the queue behind him.

Harry saw it coming and could hardly keep the grin off his face.

When Harry shook Prince's hand, he let his grip linger longer than was strictly polite, then brushed the man's hand softly with his fingers as he released his hand.

"Mr. Prince," he announced, loudly enough for the guests on either side to hear. "I'm so pleased you're able to join us tonight."

The governors and Jorgensen were instantly on it.

"The benefactor!" Jorgensen reached around to shake Prince's hand, smiling broadly.

"Professor Jorgensen is head of Slytherin House," Harry explained by way of introduction. "His students will be benefiting directly from the proceeds of the sales."

"Of course, of course," Prince muttered.

"Your cousin's portrait is displayed in our common room," Jorgensen said. "We're hoping to have it put in a more attractive frame and install special lighting."

"You've not got it mounted over the mantel, have you?" Prince asked with a frown. "Salazar Slytherin might frown on that."

Harry dropped a hand on Prince's shoulder. "And I thought you and I were both Gryffindors," he murmured so that only Prince could hear him. He squeezed his shoulder and Prince stiffened. "Of course, I found my way into that common room while I was at Hogwarts – creative use of Polyjuice…."

He turned away to greet the next person in line as George took over and introduced Prince to the two governors, who were patiently waiting their turn to meet their benefactor.

"You promised," George hissed at him a few moments later.

"It's Snape," Harry muttered. "I knew he'd come as Prince, and he's just given himself away."

Throughout the evening, Harry found one excuse after another to encroach on Prince's personal space. He posed with him time and again for photographs, led him to his chair and pulled it out for him at dinner, and brought all manner of people over to meet him.

Prince was nothing but polite outwardly, but Harry noted that he moved more and more stiffly as the evening continued.

There were three main agenda items following the meal. First was the official unveiling of the figure – no matter that it had been unveiled multiple times in the shop windows of Diagon Alley. But the shop owners had been given only the action figure itself, without the packaging and accessories. Next was Prince's speech and, finally, the announcement of the winning window display.

Harry did the unveiling himself, and gave a rather sentimental and impassioned presentation about Severus Snape and his contributions to the freedoms currently enjoyed by the Wizarding populace. He felt rather connected to the small figure in his hand as he spoke – he'd had to jump through quite a few hoops to make it to this moment, after all. When he was finished, and the applause had died away, he introduced Albert Prince Jr., and, when Prince joined him on the stage, greeted him by kissing each cheek.

It was a move he'd been planning, and it seemed to take Prince – er…Snape – by surprise. The man's face reddened and he pulled away from Harry quickly and moved to the podium.

Harry made his way off the stage and found a quiet spot against the wall to the side.

"He seems uncomfortable here."

Harry quickly swiveled his head at the unexpected voice in his ear. An older man was leaning against the wall beside him, his eyes on Albert Prince Jr. Harry thought he recognized the man, but couldn't quite place him. He had a pair of square spectacles perched on a thin, straight nose. His long grey hair was pulled into a plait, and his robes were midnight blue, of an older style, but well cared for and of a fine quality.

"He's been living in France for years," Harry explained, keeping his voice low. "I think he's a bit out of his comfort zone – he has a Ministry desk job there."

"Ah." The older man lifted his hand and rubbed the goatee on his chin with thumb and forefinger. Harry immediately noted the potions stains on his fingers. "So that was a French kiss you gave him?" he asked.

"No! I…no." Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Have I met you before?" he asked quietly, gathering his wits. "I'm sorry – I don't recall your name."

"Briefly," answered the man. He kept his eyes straight ahead. "I'm here from Slug and Jiggers. The chief…." He paused, cleared his throat. "The chief couldn't be here, and sent me on the off chance we'd win." He glanced at Harry and gave him an assessing look. "I understand he has his eyes on…the prize." He raised an eyebrow and Harry almost snorted. He managed to keep his eyes on Prince.

"So – this chief – was your window display his idea?"

"Why – did you like it?" The man's voice had an odd rasp to it. Harry thought he might be trying not to laugh.

"Let's just say it brought back some memories."

"Good memories, I hope, Mr. Potter?"

Oh, the way the man said "Mr. Potter." It nearly gave him shivers.

"Have you seen that display?" he muttered

"Thank you, Mr. Prince!" George was on the stage now, and the applause for Prince died away. "And without further ado, we'd like to announce the winners of the Headmaster Snape Wizarding Hero Action Figure Diagon Alley Window Display Contest."

"Very creative contest name," muttered the old man.

"Stop it," said Harry, smiling, though the man _did_ have a point.

"In third place, our second runner up, winner of a complete set of first edition Wizarding Hero action figures and fifty Galleons – Sugarplums!"

The crowd erupted in applause and the proprietress of the Wizarding sweet shop took the stage and claimed her prize. "Snape on a chocolate frog!" exclaimed George to laughter from the audience. "The riding crop in his hand was pure genius!"

The crowd quieted and George spoke again. "And in second place, our first runner up, winner of a set of first edition Wizarding Hero action figures and one hundred Galleons is the Leaky Cauldron!"

Hannah Abbot Longbottom squealed and took her place on the stage. "It was a tough decision," George explained as he handed over the prize. "I could have watched Snape in that rowboat for hours – and using Moody to try to stop the leak in the cauldron with his wooden leg was inspired!"

More laughter and applause, but George waited for the room to become completely silent before he continued. "Our first place winner will receive the complete action figure set, one hundred and fifty Galleons and the grand prize – a publicity appearance by Harry Potter _in your store_ to promote your products, meet your customers, kiss babies, sign autographs and do all manner of things he finds totally abhorrent – he's all yours so use him however you want– and all of this because he believes in Severus Snape!"

Harry felt himself sink into the wall behind him. Beside him, the old man kept his gaze on George, though his face took on a not-so-subtle amused look.

"Our first prize winner is Slug and Jiggers!"

Harry covered his face as the applause rose around him. Great! The winner was the very store that had him serving detention with Professor Snape, the one with the veiled message for him on the tiny chalkboard.

Harry looked up when the man's hand came to rest on his forearm.

"See you soon, Harry Potter," whispered the old man as he pushed off the wall and headed for the stage.

No.

Harry, mouth agape, watched the man make his way slowly to the podium. He couldn't hear George over the din of the crowd, the ringing in his ears.

This was the man who'd fetched him water. The man who'd been working in the office where they'd taken Harry after he passed out in the store. The man who'd seemed to want to get him out of the store and on his way as soon as possible.

Snape! Right in front of him all this time. His stomach lurched as he remembered how he'd kissed Prince on stage.

"Inspired!" George was saying. "That display spoke to me! I can't tell you how many times I was the one scrubbing cauldrons in detention with Snape. In fact, if we took a quick poll of everyone here who had Potions with Professor Snape, I imagine most of them would have personal experience with that scrub brush."

More laughter. Harry kept his eyes fixed on the old man as George introduced him and awarded the prize. His eyes slid over to Prince, and found the man was watching him. Prince smirked, then looked deliberately over at the old man accepting the award.

There were a hundred photos to be taken after the ceremony, and Harry found himself posing with Prince, with the Minister of Magic, the Board of Governors, the Head of Slytherin House, with the Diagon Alley shop owners, the runners up, and with Mr. Silas Birch of Slug and Jiggers.

"Hemlock and Nightshade?" Harry asked under his breath. "Who are you trying to kill?"

Birch shoved his hip against Harry's as the photographer directed the group to move closer together, but didn't answer.

Somehow, Birch managed to slip away before Harry could corner him alone.

"Where is he? Where's Birch?" Harry asked, panting, as he found George after looking all over the ballroom once the photo sessions had ended.

"Ducked out of here ten minutes ago," George answered. "But he wants you on Saturday – seven thirty at the flat over the shop. He says they want to treat you to breakfast before you start your day in the shop."

"Breakfast," repeated Harry.

"On Saturday," emphasized George. He glanced over to where Prince was chatting with several Hogwarts professors. "Now go get your man, Harry. Now that this is all over, you have my permission to make a fool out of yourself."

 _I already have_ , thought Harry glumly.

Mercifully, George was pulled away by Angelina just then and Harry slipped out of the room without saying his goodbyes.

ooOOOoo

On Monday, Harry received a note of apology, borne to him by the black barn owl.

 _Mr. Potter – In hindsight, I see that piercing your father's plastic head with his wand was probably not the best way to begin anew with his son. My apologies._

The note was unsigned. Harry wrote "10" in the corner and filed it with the others with a smile.

On Tuesday, the black owl was back.

 _Mr. Potter – I admit to having no personal knowledge of the clothing preferences of Mr. Lupin and cannot verify that he did, indeed, favour the wearing of his wife's clothing._

Harry smiled. He filed away #11 and went on with his day.

On Wednesday, the owl arrived rather early in the day while Harry was processing the flood of orders for the action figures – as expected, the demand for the Dumbledore figure had soared as well with the release of Snape.

 _Mr. Potter – The cauldron bottom in my official gift is a full millimeter shy of regulation thickness, when taken in proportion to a full-scale model. We will discuss this on Saturday."_

Letter number thirteen arrived on Thursday, in the form of a Howler. It opened with a great _whoosh_ of air and expanded to the size of a balloon as it shouted at Harry. _You will put an end date on these ridiculous window displays! I passed by Sugarplum's today and a Dumbledore figure has been added to the display, force-feeding Snape a sherbet lemon. If an end date of no more than a week from today is not published in the_ Daily Prophet _tomorrow, you can be sure that the Slug and Jiggers window will be enhanced as well!_

Harry stared as the Howler self-incinerated.

That voice. _Snape's_ voice. Hoarse, raspy, but decidedly Snape. It gave him a lump in his throat, made something inexplicable tighten in his chest. He ignored the warning and went on with his work.

Friday's note was short, and came an hour after the afternoon _Prophet_ had appeared.

"Don't say I didn't warn you. And please arrive promptly tomorrow morning. We've a full day ahead of us."

ooOOOoo

For the rest of his life, Harry Potter would remember the morning he walked into the living quarters over Slug and Jiggers and found Severus Snape sitting at the breakfast table, reading the _Prophet_ , and still wearing his dressing gown.

He paused at the door, which had swung open as he approached, and stood there staring at Snape. Even though he'd known who he'd be seeing, and felt that they'd done a fair job of getting reacquainted these past months, it was still disconcerting to see him alive and breathing.

And wearing a maroon striped dressing gown.

Snape looked up and gave Harry a remarkably thorough once over. It would be the first of many appraising looks, and would be followed, later that evening, after a bottle of very good wine, with a thoroughly satisfying kiss.

"I've seen the window," Harry said. His mouth twitched. "Seems like a pretty significant…enhancement."

The Harry figure in the window display had lost its scrub brush and rag, and was now sitting at the desk doodling on a piece of parchment. He'd drawn hearts and flowers and written out "Harry J. Snape" in a loopy, flowery script. He was posed with his chin resting in his hand, gazing up at Snape, who was seemingly heavily involved in his brewing.

"I don't write silly love notes," Harry stated when Snape only raised an eyebrow. "These days, I go after what I want."

The phrase hung in the air between them.

"As do I," Snape replied quietly, breaking the silence. He picked up his mug and took a sip of tea, then pointed to the chair across from his. He swept his hand across the table. "Sit. Help yourself."

"Well, good morning to you, too," Harry managed, thus cementing the pattern of morning conversation they'd adhere to for all of their long years together. He pulled out the chair and sat, then arranged the linen serviette in his lap and reached for the plate of toast. Later that night, before the epic kiss but after most of the bottle of wine, Severus would admit that he'd been watching Harry for years – watching him go about his life and grow into the kind of man Severus wished he himself could have been at that age.

His _own_ man.

Severus was neither sentimental nor maudlin. As the years passed, Harry would find him to be both moody and possessive, though a considerate and capable lover and a worthy friend and partner. An opportunist more than a fatalist, especially in these second-chance years after the war, Severus had seen a means to a desired end when his cousin – who was aware that he was not, in fact, deceased – contacted him about the action figure prototype.

But for now, he only grunted, and kept his eyes on the paper. Harry hadn't seen the _Prophet_ yet, and couldn't know that the front page featured an enhanced Wizarding photograph of Harry kissing Prince.

"Severus?"

Snape lowered his newspaper and stared at Harry. He would read the paper every morning for the rest of his days, and would have many occasions in the future to study Harry as he sat across from him, busily buttering his toast. And today, on this, their inaugural day together, Harry studied Snape right back. He looked younger than Harry remembered, his face less careworn, his shoulders no longer carrying the weight of the Wizarding world on them.

It looked good on him.

Snape smiled. Harry counted it as the first time he'd ever seen Snape smile, even though it lasted all of two seconds and barely made the corners of his mouth twitch, though his eyes softened – just for an instant – but enough for Harry to take notice.

"You're looking better than last time I saw you," Harry said. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea and took a preliminary sip to test the temperature, watching Snape watching him as he did so.

Snape raised his newspaper, studying once more the green eyes that had one day, not so very long ago, stared at him from the bruised and battered face of a boy on the cusp of manhood, a manhood Severus Snape regretfully believed he'd never achieve. He looked down at his paper again, keeping his smile to himself.

"So, Mr. Potter, are you."


End file.
